


The Book Of Love

by kittenofdoomage



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Angst, Car Accident, Death, sfw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-18
Updated: 2018-03-18
Packaged: 2019-04-04 04:37:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14012340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittenofdoomage/pseuds/kittenofdoomage
Summary: Jensen arranges a very special proposal. Inspired by the song “The Book Of Love” by Peter Gabriel.





	The Book Of Love

His guitar was heavy in his hands, and he could barely bring himself to pluck at the strings. Jensen kept his eyes on the floor, periodically blinking away tears as he stared at the beige linoleum.

The words of the song were stuck in the back of his throat, and he thought of her, bright eyes and wide smile. She’d never heard him sing. It was a recent development, one that he’d struggled to take out of the shower, but a  _ lot _ of tequila and encouragement from the band had led him to a performance that he’d wanted to repeat.

But she wouldn’t be able to hear it.

She could see it, on YouTube, and Twitter, because it was everywhere. But the music was too much, and it hurt Jensen to think about the fact that he’d broken a personal barrier, and he wasn’t able to share it with the one person he wanted to more than anything.

Y/N had acousticophobia, centered around loud music and screaming, and she’d never even managed to come to a convention. Three years of more happiness than he was sure he deserved, and he wanted to give her something that was only hers.

The restaurant was booked, and empty except for the wait staff. He didn’t like to flex that celebrity status, but this had to be special, had to be  _ perfect _ . It was all for her.

He dragged his thumb across the strings, swallowing down his nerves, wishing he had some of that magic tequila to give him some bravado. “The Book Of Love, is long and boring…” His voice was a little strained, hoarse from crying and begging.

There was no expectation of a reaction to his slow crooning.

“No one can lift the damn thing.”

She was late for the meal, and Jensen couldn’t reach her by text, or get an answer when he called. Y/N was never late, and she always answered him. Forty five minutes after she was supposed to be there, the wait staff were getting impatient, and Jensen was standing at the door, his guitar abandoned on the small stage, highlighted by a spotlight.

His phone rang.

And Jensen suddenly didn’t want to sing ever again.

A drunk driver had knocked her down on the sidewalk two blocks from the restaurant. She was in intensive care, recovering from surgery to try and repair the damage to her body. Jensen had gotten to the hospital within thirty minutes, and she was being wheeled out of the OR into a private room.

He couldn’t touch her.

For a week, Jensen couldn’t hold her hand, or kiss her lips, or look into her eyes. Y/N was in a coma, and they didn’t know if she would wake up.

Jared came by and brought him clothes, food, drink, and informed him that the producers had postponed the schedule for a few weeks until she was better. It sounded so optimistic, and so  _ Jared _ , to hold that belief that she would wake up.

On the eighth day, Jared walked into Y/N’s room with a guitar, and propped it up in the corner. Jensen didn’t look at it. “Jay, I know it’s hard, man. But she needs to hear your voice.  _ You _ need to hear your voice.” He laid a hand on his best friend’s shoulder, squeezing it slightly. “I’ll be back in a few hours. Gen needs help with the baby.”

Jensen didn’t say anything.

The younger man sighed, and left him be.

A weight still tugged on his hand, on the box he hadn’t let go of since he’d got here. Small, red, lined with velvet, and holding a small single diamond embedded in a circle of silver. The perfect size to fit on her ring finger.

He held it up, and looked at the closed box, before opening it and reaching over to place it in Y/N’s palm. Her fingers didn’t move, and Jensen stared for a little longer, sighing heavily.

His guitar was heavy in his hands, and he could barely bring himself to pluck at the strings. Jensen kept his eyes on the floor, periodically blinking away tears as he stared at the beige linoleum. He didn’t think he could do it if he looked at her. 

The song came out in an unsteady rhythm, and slowly, he started to look up, focusing on her face, on the darkness of her lashes against her cheeks. He didn’t think about the tube in her throat, or the wires connecting her to half a dozen machines. He didn’t look at the bags of fluid hanging around her bed, keeping her alive.

Jensen thought about that night, about the song he was singing for her, and how she would have said yes with shining eyes, and kisses that lasted into the darkness of the late night. They would have made the plans, and picked the bridesmaids, and argued over flowers, and Jensen would have been happier than any other man in existence because he would have her as his wife.

“The book of love is long and boring, and written very long ago,

It's full of flowers and heart-shaped boxes,

And things we're all too young to know,

But I… I love it when you give me things,

And you… you ought to give me wedding rings.”

The last word cracked on his tongue like a chisel point to his soul, and he couldn’t stop the fresh tears from flowing. He reached out, barely touching the edge of the bed before an alarm went off.

Things moved in slow motion, and Jensen didn’t feel like it was real. Nurses and doctors flooded the room, and he was pushed out, unable to make a single protest.

He stood in the hall, his guitar hanging limply from his left hand, his eyes burning with tears and disbelief coloring his cheeks white. The alarm kept ringing in his head, and the small red box that still lay cradled in her palm was knocked free when they moved her body. 

It fell to the floor, and the ring came loose from the velvet cushion, spinning around on the stained linoleum.

Jensen only wanted to sing to her. To give her the song that was meant to be hers, that no one else would ever hear. He wanted to marry her, and give her beautiful children, and a long happy life.

He didn’t care if the book of love was long and boring. He just wanted to read it with her.


End file.
